Stockholm
by ellequoi
Summary: As an amnesiac under the care of Ginny Weasley comes closer to his identity, unaware of the trauma it inflicts on her, she is doing everything in her power to protect—or destroy—him, before they are bound together forever. Completed.
1. Stockholm

Stockholm 

Geneva has told him to call her Ginny, but–he doesn't know why–he feels he can't. There is a horrible feeling associated with the name, something that causes him to think he had let her down. He doesn't know why; he can't have met her before. He can't remember having ever met _anyone_ before. 

Not unless he thinks about it... a _man_, it was: tall, dark, and ugly. A man that, if he thinks about it, he might have liked to know. He was evil, and the man had been a Nemesis (for Geneva reads myths to him), casting judgment upon him. But he has been spared, hasn't he? Some mercy has been shown towards him and he is here now, with his wonderful Geneva. 

He likes to watch her prepare for her days, donning her long black robes and pinning her badge proudly on her chest. There is always some bitterness involved; he knows she is leaving him. He will be here all alone. Solitary by nature, he doesn't think he minds, imagining with pride the magnificent things Geneva is off to do. 

That day, Tom is at the little balcony that stems out from their room. He is there only to breathe the air, crisp and stinging, and to dream about how far the wooded horizon extends. His pleasant woolgathering is interrupted rudely by two uncouth gigglers on the ground. 

"DISHY!" yells one. Her voice is high and thick with phlegm. He compares it to Geneva's smooth, clear intonations and it comes off unfavourably. 

"Come down and give us a kiss, love," yells the other. 

Slowly, his wary stare upon them, he retreats backwards into the warm, safe room. Perhaps, he thinks later, when he has had time to get over the shock and forgive the two, they have no room to retreat to. The outside must make anyone harder and coarser; he is afraid of it, relieved that Geneva has not broached the topic of going there. 

Thinking is dangerous, yet it is–besides cleaning and bathing–the only amusement available to him. Often he stares up at the ceiling and asks it questions that are out of his simple reach. 

"Why does Geneva always carry around a dowel?" he asks of it today. "It seems as if it is important to her, and only her. She says words to it and it does what she says. She has never yet let me touch it. Would it listen to me? Ought I to watch more carefully?" 

He pauses, waiting for the words to come back down to him so that he can answer the latter question posed. 

"No," he decides. "I should not be watching Geneva. She watches me, do you know? It's true, she does. She is that caring." 

Once again, the words echo through the bare room. Thinking with a whimsical smile about the real Echo, he wonders who this makes him. Diana, her mistress? Juno, revenging herself against the nymph, but her unfaithful husband through proxy? Narcissus, the cruel, handsome youth who cared for nothing but his looks and what he could inflict? 

He shivers; in pinning down the character of Narcissus he is afraid that it is really himself he is thinking of. 

Echo is he, the poor foolish nymph who never meant any harm but played and loved overmuch. Will he waste away? Will his voice call back to the others in warning? 

When Geneva comes back to the room, he has formulated a plan to quell his curiosity. She leaves the room to bathe, and he takes the opportunity to touch the stick in the discarded robes he will be expected to wash tomorrow. 

A slight thrill goes through him at the feeling of it. Shivering, he says the first thing that comes into mind. 

"_Avada Ke_–" 

He breaks off. What can he be thinking of? A mistake, he assures himself, nonsense. He was merely joking. 

Trying again, he is determined not to err this time. "_Lumos_," he whispers. 

The stick radiates white light throughout the room, shaking in his hand so that he can hardly hold it. For several seconds he is blinded. This is when Geneva comes in. 

She stops, naked and dripping in the doorway, upon seeing him. 

"_Nox_," she says, and slaps him. He can only begin to distinguish her silhouette, smooth and defined. Her tears drop on his head and slither down his back. "What were you thinking?" she cries. "You cannot touch the wand. I'm so disappointed. It isn't even yours." 

"Wand," he repeats, pleased to have put a name to the dangerous stick that he still clutches. 

"You have nothing. _Nothing_, do you hear me? The wand will not work for you. Never let me see you with it again. Oh, never, never again..." 

She crumples to the floor and sobs, her slight frame shaking with the effort of misery. He feels as if he ought to apologize and comfort her now, but she will not let him touch her. 

"No, not anymore," she says, not to him. "I can't let you. You're evil, so evil, and I think I'm afraid of you." 

He leaves her then. In the bathroom, he forgets to mix the water properly, like Geneva showed him, and scalds himself badly. He would tell her, but she seems to have other things to worry about other than ministering to his infantile needs. He won't be read a story tonight. 

In bed that night, Geneva has recovered something of her previous composure. He is awake, thinking, by the time she gets herself comfortable against him. Her eyelashes, still wet from tears, flutter against his arm. It calls to mind a butterfly for him, at first, but in the dark he starts to think of a moth instead, and for once he can remember: 

"Snake-charmer, are you? Why not get a taste of something other then me arm next time!" A jeering voice, one of several, and the rude yanking of his jaw as something alive was shoved into his mouth. "Try your 'and at something other than gruel for once, won't you?" 

Choking on the moth, he tried to spit it out. Some grimy hand clamped shut his mouth as another yelled out, "Orphan, orphan, you're an orphan." 

They all put it into ragged song as the moth twitched about in his mouth and he was forced to swallow it. He had choked and almost died. 

Thinking of it, he wrenches his arm from under Geneva's head and leaps out of the bed just in time. His vomit ends up on the floor and, after cleaning up, he sits at the chair of Geneva's desk and sleeps there instead. 

_ 

"Geneva," he asks her as she ties her tie on this sunny morning, "what do you do in the day?" 

Pulling her tie too tight, she chokes. "What's that?" 

"During the day, when I'm tidying up and you go." 

She relaxes. "Well, I go to teach people to read. Like you." 

He doesn't understand. "_Me_?" Perhaps he misheard her, for he has never learnt to read, he's sure of it. 

"Of course I was going to teach you to read," she says. "You just never brought it up before, so I wasn't sure." She smiles. "Are you excited?" 

His world is the size of a pin; naturally, he is ecstatic. 

It is during their dinner that he insists they start. It pleases him to find that his quick progress amazes Geneva. Somehow, he is not surprised to find himself capable of learning. In fact, he finds himself wondering arrogantly why he hadn't noticed before. 

With his newfound knowledge, he is more observant. Sneaky, even. The dictionary in Geneva's desk drawer was something he had been made to seek of his own accord. He spent an entire day going through it, but it has not interested him but for one word: 

**amnesia** loss of memory as a result of brain injury or deterioration, shock, illness, or psychoneurotic reaction 

A microcosm of thought sparks suddenly in his head, bringing up ideas that, like fireworks, are soon gone. As if through the word's influence, he somehow can't remember why it mattered, or why he thought it to begin with. But he doesn't forget it easily, and in withdrawing to contemplate its significance, he concerns Geneva. 

"You're too reticent," she says. Thinking for several minutes, she pulls out her wand. Using it with great aplomb, she conjures him a sandbox and a stick. Though she doesn't tell him what it is for, he soon guesses that he is to use the stick and trace patterns into the sand. The idea is a very tempting one, but he restrains himself that night, when she has fallen asleep. 

Slowly, painstakingly, he scratches out letters in the sand. They are all ill formed and quite illegible, but he is proud still. Self-taught, he thinks, that's him. He envisions a future where Geneva scolds him about his messy writing and he excuses himself with this. 

It is not for a while that he realizes what he has been writing, with a progressively neater and familiar hand: "I am lord Voldemort." 

Quickly, he erases it, and for one last time, uses Geneva's wand. "_Obliviate_," he says, and afterwards cannot remember what spell he has used or how he knew it. 

Crawling back into bed, he wraps his arms around her, and she turns in her sleep to face him. 

_ 

She is watching him. 

He has noticed before, yet the motive he assumed of her was misplaced. All this time, she has been staring at him watchful and wary. Is he a _cannibal?_ he thinks indignantly. It's unfair to him to be treated so. He's working himself into frenzy. 

It was all the fault of the mirror. From the start he had not been disposed towards it, partly because he was jealous of Geneva's brothers, and also because he could not find a logical explanation for it to be talking. 

The talking was not so much his greatest worry as much as what the mirror actually said: 

"Think Ginny fancies you, don't you? Here you are, head over heels, but what about her?" was just the beginning, and it was enough to terrify him. At this time in his life the slightest doubt about his security was enough to send him flying out the window to the callous, uncouth world below. And to hear her called Ginny! 

Ignoring the mirror is only a start, but was voice is harsh and carrying. 

"What's she doing with a man in her room anyway? Why's she hiding you? Young fellow like you and you're stuck in here all the time? Are you mental?" An endless prattle of the most horrible rhetorical questions. No longer could he share his pleasant monologue with the ceiling, for the mirror interceded. An opinion of its omniscience grew, cancerous, in his head, and in little time it terrified him. 

It was not an entirely unpleasant experience to seek refuge in the bathroom. For his own reasons, he loves being able to use Geneva's soap; smelling the same way unites the two of them, makes them the same in a way that nothing else could. It gave him a sense of security that, if he ever left, the mirror would in time strip away. 

He shared none of his fears with Geneva, and neither did the duplicitous mirror that cursed him so. 

One day, though, the mirror went too far. 

"Ginny's afraid of you," it taunted. "Always looking at you scared, hating you. She doesn't really lo–" 

And that was _it_ for him. A powerful rage took over, when all he wanted to do was destroy the horrible, ceaseless voice. Grabbing the lamp on the desk, he brought it down upon the mirror, breaking its words off into a high scream. Small shards of glass flew up into his face, but in the heat of the moment he was not prone to noticing. 

By the time Geneva returned, the glass was cleared away and her wall was completely blank. She was surprised. 

"The mirror was dangerous," he told her. "It talked about magic and outside." 

This explanation pleased her so much she did not reprimand him, saying, "That means seven years of bad luck for you, you know." 

He nodded. "I'll risk it." 

As much as the end result pleased him, he could not forget the last words of the mirror. He observed Geneva like a cat: sly, quiet, ready to pounce. 

The outcome is true to behold, and he does not like it. How can she be right in front of him, cowering yet vigilant, while he daydreams? Watching him, always afraid he will do something, always prepared to stop him. But what will he do? He's quite harmless. 

It is customary for him to forgive her before she realizes she has sinned; he likes to feign her gratitude for her. This time, he never quite forgets, a slight mistrust of her forming in his mind. 

_ 

Today, he is elated. He has been allowed access to the bookshelf, where he can study mythology intensely. 

It is too bad, though, that today is when he should have this privilege, for there are so many more things to do. He wastes several minutes just enumerating the possibilities, counting his blessings while excitement builds. 

First, he turns to his sandbox, his _tabula rasa_ of the imagination. Again he wants to write something, but what? 

He ponders this for a moment, and again his hand guides him: 

Tom Marvolo Riddle  
Mrs. Geneva Riddle 

Lord Vol 

Stopping, horrified and perplexed, he slaps at the sand with his hand to eradicate the last two lines. Standing from a distance, he surveys the remainder of his handiwork proudly, an artist and his masterpiece. 

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," he says, relishing the sound of it. "Tom Marvolo Riddle." Again comes the welcome sound of an echo. "I AM," he yells, "TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE!" 

He laughs suddenly, finding he can't stop, and falls back onto the bed. An overwhelming sense of joy fills him, replacing the sick fear of before. So this is it; this is who he is. 

Riddle, Tom Riddle. 

A smile breaks onto his face like sunlight on the horizon at dawn at the thought of Geneva's reaction. She'll be happy for him, he tells himself, she'll feel the same way he has. He imagines the benevolent smile on her face and it widens his own. 

Though he immerses himself completely in almanacs of the driest sort for hours, he is ready when Geneva returns. 

"Hello, Ginny," he greets her quietly, standing in the shadows. "I'm Tom Marvolo Riddle." The words seem familiar to him, as if he's rehearsed them or said them before. 

Turning pale, she cries out suddenly, falling to the floor in a dead faint. He does what he can to revive her but she does not open her eyes for a very long time. 

Later, he regrets the way he chose to tell her. He will never understand it; he will live it over, dreaming, wondering why he called her Ginny, why he acted like they'd never met, and mostly the motive behind them both. 

_ 

"Geneva," Tom whispers to her, "I love you." They are lying in bed, invisible in the dark. This is the only time in which Tom divulges his secrets. 

She is silent. If not for her sudden rigidity he would suspect that she hasn't heard him at all. Patient, he waits, expecting something from her, and is not disappointed. 

"I know," she says loudly. "I know you do...Tom." 

Smiling, he turns to his side, burrowing into the blankets, easily satisfied with whatever Geneva has to offer. 

For once, it is Tom who is the first to fall asleep, Ginny the one awake, uneasy, and lost. 

_fin_


	2. Icarus

Icarus 

Had she _really_ dreamed him into existence? 

_Did I dream you, Tom? Have you really come out of the diary, just for me?_

No, he was forced into coming to her, mind lost, without the understanding he was surrendering to her. Even in that dream world, she feared him without his defences; had he not been defenceless the first time she had met him? The baser instincts in her hungered for the possibility of the future, dreaming and scheming about how she could take that intelligence, good looks, and what she once saw as compassion, and turn him into her Adonis. 

Once, when she wakes at night, he is there at the window, his hand outstretched and pleading to the rain. If he leans out any further, he will fall out the window, tumbling down with a yell and dying on impact, sinking into the mud. If he does, she calculates, there will be an investigation and the dirty little secret from her room will be made known. 

He looks well in the moonlight. It makes him shine, and she can imagine again that he is powerful and strong, and she is not the one protecting him. 

_Don't worry, Ginny. I'll keep you safe. No one can do anything to you when you're with me._

Have any words ever sounded so sweet, imagined or remembered or not? She wants the burden of him off her back so he cannot drain her, but she also knows her obligation to the world and she must keep him from it. She is the only one who can do so, and she thinks this without arrogance, but a resignation she associates with Harry Potter. 

She tries—she always does—her best to keep him from the world, but he weighs on her shoulders like the world on Atlas and she needs some reprieve. She just hopes that when she is weak enough to cast him away she is not so weak as to take him back. 

Tomorrow she leaves Hogwarts. With Tom? She does not know. The only other alternative is to destroy him. His face is dreamy, like one of the poets or artists she once idolized, and she does not know whether she can. 

She notices the way his head always turns to the window when she leaves and how his skin is looking more bleached than creamy, his hair a miasma against it, and she is unsure about telling him. She sees his restless face and roving eyes and makes a decision. 

"Tom." It is a relief to be able to say his name now. She can almost be glad he remembered it. Pulling herself into his lap and letting him imprison her in his arms, she says, "Tom darling, we are about to do something very big." 

He brushes his finger across her eyelashes. "Yes, Geneva?" he says, his head turned towards the window again. "It is raining." 

So like him, the false profession of concentration while the mind delicately meanders into cold territories. She frowns but he does not notice. His grey eyes will not tryst with hers now. They have not for a long time. Still, his surgical hands snake their way through her hair, trying to straighten the tangled mess. It hurts. She has yet to teach Tom the concepts of pain and empathy. Teaching does not become her. 

"Tom," she says to him again, not expecting his attention but getting it anyway. "We will be going very soon now. Outside..." 

He turns to her. "Outside. Will we be going back in to another room?" 

His only memories are of this one room. She understands that he does not know there is any more than a room. Maybe she can find a cottage where he can explore the flora and fauna, unhindered by boundaries. Maybe. 

"In good time, Tom. We will not always stay inside. I can teach you things elsewhere." 

He nods. "If you say so, Geneva, that is what will be done." She does not like his seeming belief in her words. It mocks more than respects. "When are we to leave?" 

"Not long after you wake up," she tells him. "Are you ready?" 

A smile spreads onto Tom's face and he runs to the window again, hissing to it. 

"I will go to bed now," he announces presently. "The wait will be shorter that way, won't it?" Leaning over, he kisses her with his weak mouth. "Thank you, Geneva. I _am_ excited!" 

With Tom going to bed, her presence in the room is only intrusive. She leaves for the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. 

To actually break the state she has lived in, like in a fortress in wartime, is a breath of fresh air. With a giddy laugh, she inhales and exhales until her nose stings from the cold and wet. People stare at her, people she once knew and probably still does. 

She peers out onto the Quidditch field from a vantage viewpoint on the fifth floor. Madam Hooch, seeing her, waving and grins. Ginny returns the greeting, and the professor flies up to her. 

"If it isn't Ginny Weasley! My, didn't I have a time with your brothers, and now since you're the only one left and don't try out I've lost touch with the Weasleys. How are you all? Well, I hope. Heard about Charlie, and it's a damn shame. Poor thing, no wonder you've looked so dull lately. Now, I was going to ask you something—now what was it? Oh, yes—we're upgrading the school's flying inventory and it seems a waste to throw out all these Shooting Stars. I'd planned to other them to students, and here you are, so I'll just give it to you now then. I'll be off then, nice to chat with you." 

Madam Hooch flies off, puffing from her long, unrelieved speech, and Ginny catches the broom thrown to her. What chance to have been here to receive it when she never goes out. She sighs. 

Someone behind reaches out and grabs her shoulder. 

She shrieks, prickles forming on her skin. Tom can't have gotten out—has he regained his memory? No! 

" 'Smatter, Gin?" 

Turning, she meets the confused, freckled face of her brother and her fears are allayed. 

"Ronny, it's you." She forces a smile. "I never even expected you. What are you doing here?" 

"Just came down to see the end of an era. Perhaps I should have sent an owl, but I wanted it to be a surprise. I wanted a chance to talk to you before you could prepare your excuses." 

So Ron is here for something darker than brotherly pride. His last comment does not worry her; he is right. She may even enjoy being angry over it. 

"Let's go down to the kitchens, shall we?" Ron waits for her to suggest a field of flowers or unicorn grazing grounds but, when she does not, leads the way. 

This scenario has presented itself to her at night. Her wit at these times is brilliant, sparkling like ponds prostrated as worshippers before sunlight, and her timing is perfect. Ron already has the upper hand right now by taking these from her to use himself. Not for nothing is he a chess master. 

Down in the house-elves' domain, she watches with affection as her brother stuffs himself with food. Has her family been making enough to feed them all? She wonders. She worries. 

When he does look up, it is with concern. She is the only girl in the family, and the baby: a frail, dainty girl with a delicate voice and minute, perfect features, a girl who grew into her role without growing at all. No one has yet dared to call her ill, for that would finalize her ruin, but they are all anxious. Ron has not been the first to offer to come up today. 

"Gin-gin," says Ron, making her giggle at the childhood nickname, "we're all proud of you—you do know that?" She nods. "Look here, I've been worried. I took the liberty of asking people here about you and they say you're only ever in class and you never talk. I know you've always been a recluse, but this can't be good for you. You've seemed more and more tired lately and we haven't seen you at home for a year." 

"Tell Mum I've grown, then, and I've charmed my hair violet." 

"That isn't funny!" Ron snaps. "You think you can make a joke of this? Damn it, can't we even have a conversation? What vile secret do you have going on this year, Ginny?" 

Ginny gasps and before she can help herself, she is blinking as if in the face of light and Ron puts his arm around her, murmuring words of comfort and apology. He is blurry through her tears and, in the second before he wipes her eyes with his sleeve, resembles their father. 

"Don't cry, Ginny," whispers Ron. "Just come home, and everything will be right again, we wouldn't let anything happen to you. You're hiding from—from _him_, aren't you?" 

_Don't cry, Ginny darling. Trust in me and I can make everything right for you..._

She answers Ron's question with a nod. Yes, brother, let us blame Voldemort. What could be easier? 

Ron sighs. "Maybe I was wrong to come like this. I reckon I ought to have warned you, Gin." He pats her on the back, hovering over her for affirmation. 

When he leaves, she stares at him with dread. He will be back tomorrow. They all will. 

___ 

After Charlie's death, the school was anxious to help. They gave her a pamphlet on bereavement. Ginny looked at it as a checklist, sorry to not miss her brother and therefore determined to: 

SYMPTOMS INCLUDE: obsession over the person, change in eating and sleeping habits, crying, alienation from friends and normal activities, no plans for future, anxiety and confusion, nightmares, flashbacks

She does not understand what she was grieving for yet, but it is still on her desk. Realizing that her previous ambiguity towards dragons has morphed into a primordial fear and hate, she decided that her feelings over Charlie's death have already settled on their dusty road. 

She holds no obligation to her niece and her parents to mourn any longer. The mirror Charlie left her had a revered place in her room until it left them with the seven-year curse, but even when it was there, it cursed her. She will never be able to look at her reflection again; Tom's beautiful, brooding eyes will burn the background of every glass. 

But the feeling remains, the obsession and change in habits and crying and alienation and nightmares and— 

_Ginny, of course you aren't crazy. Calm yourself and please stop crying._

_Yes, darling, I can feel it. I can feel _you_._

___ 

Dawn glows through the sheer drapes and the room, where it gets sucked into the dark walls. A chirping bird flutters over, hoping to gain entrance, but its frivolity sickens Ginny and she closes the window. 

Tom bounds out of bed with a verve that Ginny has never seen of him. It pleases and surprises her. Acting like a young child, Tom does not seem to be the threat she has always considered him. Perhaps today—and with all her might, she hopes it—she might not have to guard him. 

Her eyes flutter closed at this relieving permission. 

Suddenly, her world changes. There is something that pulls at her from the inside, forcing her into a gravitational implosion. Though she leaves behind a bloody mess, there is something else there as well. It wails, hungry, its auburn hair and grey eyes and weak mouth hard to face. 

When she next awakes, Tom is standing over her. 

"Geneva," he announces, "I dreamed last night of what it would be to go outside. Oh, it was wonderful!" Reaching for her hand, he wrings it in his own. "Are we leaving now?" 

She has to deny him this for the present, but she doesn't quite know how. She does not wish to stifle Tom's excitement, because she likes it. 

Her jaw cracks as she yawns, rubbing her eyes. Tom winces. His aural sensitivity has no tolerance for ugly sounds. Ginny frowns as well, displeased by her body's errant mistakes. She has always been the lovely little doll. She wants to be perfect; she will be; she must be. 

He watches her in undisguised awe—and, remembering his last hunger for her, lust—as she dons her short dress robes, blue like the night skies and cut short with the motive of initiating herself into adulthood. He watches her as she applies lipstick, eye shadow and concealer. He watches her as she licks her teeth and sprays her breath. 

By the curve of her dress, she is reminded of her dream, and hopes that sleeping on her stomach is the only cause for the taut arc she sees there. Tom watches her as she runs her hand over it. 

She tells herself it is unfair to cringe from his steady gaze, for she has always stared at him, trying to catch him in the act of evil, but she doesn't want him looking at her, not now. He is an alien to Hogwarts now, so separate from her school life that to link the two in any action is impossible. Tom may be her secret to hide from Hogwarts, but Hogwarts is her secret to hide from him. 

He stares out the window again, the light shining on him filtered through the rain. She is struck again by how wonderful and innocent he looks—but even more, how he pulls time backwards and submerges the room in the 1940s once again by his very look. He is untainted by today's wars and trouble, most of which he caused. She forgives him. 

Although she is already late, she hesitates in leaving. Tom is so much closer to his dream of leaving that she cannot trust him now. 

There is a knock at the door—Ron again, probably—and she blows him a kiss and steps out before he can question her. 

She had not been expecting to be looking straight at an unparalleled view of peridot. Harry Potter, elevated above all with his humungous honorary statue in Hogsmeade, is exactly her height. 

"Oh, er, hullo Ginny," he stammers. "Ron, he told me that you would be here, and he was busy, so you get me instead." He musters a smile, but looks nervous. "Your robes are very nice, Ginny. Make them yourself? Hermione said you made something for her once, last year when we were leaving Hogwarts. Dumbledore offered me a teaching post then, you know? But I said no, Quidditch is what I want to do, and I've done that, haven't I?" 

He continues talking, not noticing her growing irritation at him. By the time they reach the hall, she has developed a _blasé_ front in her defence and only her parents, arms outstretched to envelop her in their muddle of worry, can wipe it away. 

As they near, she sees red, and it sickens her. They _all_ came, every single one of them: Mum, Dad, Bill, Percy, Fred, George, and Ron. Harry, too, but he hardly counts. Every single Weasley is there to watch and scrutinize and stifle her. 

"Ginny, we were so worried—" 

"You look so tired—" 

"Fine." She steps back and away. "I'm fine." 

They stare at her, and the silence becomes a taut little bubble; outside it, Ginny can see others living, but she cannot hear them through the pall of nothingness that has come over the Weasleys. 

Harry, unused to awkward family moments from not having a family, pops the bubble. 

"Hermione said she wouldn't be coming, so I hope you aren't disappointed?" 

Ginny wonders whether she is. Hermione Granger has never been particularly close to her, except in fey moods of girlish confiding. 

Harry peers into her face, not used to being ignored. 

"Answer the boy, Ginny," prompts Percy, and dutifully she shakes her head and smiles. She spends the ceremony seated next to Percy, whose pomposity and decorum overshadows her. Sometimes, Ginny likes it that way, to be the reason for the congregation but still ignored, left to her own world. 

No one receives more applause than Geneva Weasley and her eleven-and-a-half NEWTs. Her journey up, past all the tables and people, takes longer than anyone else's, but the clapping does not die down. When she goes to sit, she makes a Slytherin in the front make room for her so she does not have to handle the journey back, so she does not have to confront her family. 

Bottoms hovering inches above the chair, they attempt to find her, but the Slytherin is tall, and she does not have to worry. Decaffeinated from the burden of Tom, she drifts off again. The same dream comes back to her with a vengeance, like a kick to the stomach. The good, paternal Slytherin wakes her up before the ceremony ends and they throw their hats in the air (it occurs to Ginny that, if anyone has starched his hat, he can only hope it will land on its brim). 

Laughing with the exhilaration of liberation, the same liberation that Ginny does not feel, the Slytherin pulls her into a hug. Past his shoulder, she can see her hat land onto the floor, its braided tassel tapping the edge of her seat before flopping to the ground. 

She can see Tom. 

He stands to the side of the entrance, shadowed by the pillar that his hand rests on. Although he is too far away for her to see his face, she thinks that their eyes have met. His mouth disappears into his sullen anger for a minute. Ever closer he moves towards her, his heavy stomp pounding in her ears, echoed by her heartbeat. 

Despite her disquiet at this moment, she feels annoyed that they cannot be _together_ in this. Her pulse cannot even match his walk. He should have started a nanosecond later; her antiquated remembrance of Tom demands that he time this precisely. 

The Slytherin, disentangling himself from her, looks at the approaching boy and holds out his hand to greet him while the other hand reaches for his wand, unsteady. Ginny is again the peacekeeping mediator, mired in the role of frightened protector, a German hiding a Jew—a Briton hiding a Nazi. Quickly, she runs up to Tom, stooping low enough to hide from her family, and takes him by the hand. 

When she has dragged him away, a child in shame, he grabs her and pulls her to him. 

Why doesn't she punish him? She asks herself this for a while, but she would think being him is punishment enough. At least he does not know it yet. 

"Geneva, you mustn't _ever_ let them touch you, please don't," he whispers, draping his arms on her shoulders and running his hands down her back. "We have to stay together. Do you understand? You have to be mine. I need you, Ginny." 

_Ginny_. He says the name again and the pustule of fear within her erupts, bringing up the past. She has another decision to make, but shrugs it off. It can wait; it will have to. She pulls away from Tom's cold hands. 

"Sorry, Tom. I kept you waiting, didn't I? You were very good, too!" she chirps. "I promised you that we would be leaving, so we had better do just that right now. I just need to go and get—" 

He holds up her trunk. How can he, she wonders? His arm is small and haunted with the ill health of confinement. She suspects him. 

When he squeezes her shoulder, it is the same frail touch. The sharp impact of the air hitting them outside makes her forget this as Tom opens his arms to the world and inhales. A neigh overtakes his nasal passages—has she ever heard him laugh before this? —and he streaks across the grass in a wild Bacchanal ecstasy. 

A wild plan crawls upon her as he is exploring. What if she flees him now? He will never find her, and by the time she is gone none of this will matter. Ginny's impression of the adult world is vague, somehow connected with the magnified worries of her nonage being taken from their microscope to let her see everything clearly. Yes, it is a wonderful idea. 

"Geneva!" Tom calls out to her. He has a butterfly in his hand, and she is about to exclaim at its beautiful iridescence. His merciless hand closes on it, and upon unclasping, the crumpled creature sinks to the ground, dead. Tom frowns, peering at his hand as if he thinks the butterfly's life is manifest there, ready to welcome him. 

"Come on, Tom. We have to go now." 

"But Geneva, are we not already outside?" 

"Not truly, Tom. We have not left yet." 

Sighing, he allows himself one last look around, then casts down his eyes and follows her. 

Despite all her strategies for abandoning him, Ginny has not planned what they will do now. If they walk, they can reach the train station in an hour or two and use the benches as a bivouac. 

They trudge on. 

_____ 

The beams of sunshine that spill past the clouds aim at their eyes, making them dream of blood and veins until their rude awakening. Ginny is grateful to have daylight break upon them at this early hour. It will give her a chance to load onto the train quickly and lock Tom and herself up in the last compartment, and she makes good on the promise to herself. 

"On, Tom, quickly," she whispers. As she pushes him up the step, she sees Ron again. His hand is in his pocket as if to convey an innocent air, and he whistles, but his eyes narrow as he sees her and he nears with stomping steps. She turns to hide Tom. 

"Ginny," he hisses. "What the devil have you been up to?" 

"Ron, I—" 

"Leaving us last night, then running off with some Slytherin boy? Ginny, we made a special effort to be there, and the least you could do—I looked for you everywhere. This was important, if you didn't notice. Did all of us come to _my_ graduation, or Fred's or—" 

"We all went to Charlie's." 

Ron gives her a long stare, but breaks it. "I wish you wouldn't drag him into this. Anyway, I need to know what excuse you need me to give Mum for you. None of us are very pleased, but it will help it I act as go-between. Just tell me what happened, Gin." 

Is Ron trying to induce her into telling him? 

Ginny smiles at him, forcing her mouth to curve up, and closes the door of her compartment. The lock is rusted, but still works. 

_"Alohomora,"_ yells Ron from outside, with a click to punctuate his spell. She pulls out her wand to combat it, but can't think of anything. 

Tom clutches her wand even as she holds it. _"Adfirmo."_ His hold remains on the wand; he seems pleased with his prowess. 

Forgetting about Ron, she pulls her hand away from his, releasing his grip. Tears well up in her eyes, unbidden. If he is gaining control over himself and his magic, her control over him will be lost. 

Swallow. Blink. Rub eyes. 

"Geneva?" Tom whispers into her ear, jutting his chin between her shoulder and jaw. "I apologize, I know you told me not to use your wand. I wanted only to protect you." 

She says nothing. 

"Geneva, I was only trying to keep you safe!" Tom pushes away from her now, fists clenched. "You must believe me." 

Silence from her. 

"Well, you lied," he says. "You told me I could do nothing with the 'wand'—" he says the word so delicately, it might be a newborn—"but I did, didn't I? I did. It worked. Geneva, I may even be good at it." 

"I wouldn't presume," mumbles she. "I was holding the wand. You just said the spell. It was me, Tom, I'm sorry." Thinking about it now, she worries that Ron has seen Tom, but passes it off with an underestimation of her brother's intelligence. 

Tom scowls. "No, it can't be. I'm the one—" 

"Sorry, but that's the truth." Taking him by the hand, she leads him to sit down. When he does, he is still unhappy, though at least not pressing the subject further, and presses his head against the window. His hair tumbles over his face, and he lets it. The train starts moving soon after. Ginny would like to comfort Tom, but his expression is invisible, covered by the screen of hair. She wishes that she cut it. 

Then, it is dark, and she cannot see any other part of him. His hand encircles her wrist, though. 

"What's going on?" whispers Ginny, but as she starts to shiver, she answers herself. 

Dementors. 

She does not want them here. She _hates_ them, and they are going to ruin everything with Tom. He will think back, and remember; she will think back, and have to see him. No, there has to be something to do to stop them. They are not human. 

Her hand flings out towards the back, and after taking something in her hand, the creaking sound assures her that there is a door there. 

"Tom, take my trunk, we're leaving." 

The merciful door opens out to the tracks and the sky. They burst out onto the railing on the back, and Ginny yells, "Jump!" 

Her insides roil and contract, and if she ever did more harm to her body than she has done now, she would already be an angel—or its foil. 

She lies on the ground with Tom, prostrate, long yellow grasses tickling their faces in an effort to oppose the wind. When the sensations of yesterday—breakfast, mostly—coming up her throat is swallowed, she sits up, brushing the loose plants off her robes and fingering the indentation of the grass on her legs. 

The sun beams at them from that same cloud that it greeted them from at dawn. It shines down on them with a golden warmth, which makes Ginny smile and close her eyes. Tom, upon experiencing daylight for the first time, gasps. He reaches out for her wrist again, gripping it. 

Ginny sits up, the smile growing. What can go wrong? 

Pulling Tom up, she runs across the field and kicks off her shoes. Oh, she is happy now! Laughter and other forms of uncontrollable mirth bubble over into hysterics, and she dances, flailing her arms out to embrace the world. 

"Dance with me," she cries out, a barefoot little pacifist. 

He takes her hands with reservation, but she whirls him about, laughing, and he cedes to her insanity. Ginny has always held a persuasive sway over everyone, and now she is contagious. Tom has to join in. Her mood parallels his earlier ecstasy over being allowed outside. 

When her breath is spent, she falls to the ground. Tom dusts off a spot and joins her. He looks up to the sky. 

"The clouds are forming," he says. "I feel cold." 

Rising to her feet, Ginny looks around. It was unwise of her to waste time frolicking. She ought to have been finding them a shelter. As it is, the grass nicking the soles of her feet covers the entire field. The lengths differ concentrically, but in the middle it looks like the stalks will reach her shoulder. Off to the side, a solitary tree mounts a low hill, the only topography in sight. Ginny sees no possibility for camping, but she wants to be optimistic. 

"Come along," she calls. "We'll go to the middle and use the grass as a roof, I suppose." 

Picking up her trunk, he nods and follows her, but she tires long before they reach their destination. 

"We'll stop here, Tom." Ginny hopes he will not question her. 

Tom's gaze strays to the tree and he nods again. He is reticent these days—Ginny supposes he talks to himself instead of her—but today, even more so, and his silence is unnerving. She silently urges him to talk. 

_Ginny, you like to talk, don't you? I'm lucky your writing is so lovely._

_No, of course I don't mind. I love to hear what you have to say. I could listen forever._

Ginny launches herself at the ground. 

"Oh, I am tired," she says, yawning. "It should be dark by now, shouldn't it?" By her watch, it is already evening. Although it is summer, there shouldn't be this much light. 

"Look," says Tom. It is his first word in several hours. 

Turning in his direction, Ginny's mood catapults into a hell. 

Not the Dark Mark, it couldn't be the Dark Mark, not _now_ that she has suppressed the dark force single-handedly and is trying to protect it. What idiot would interrupt their peace and happiness now? 

Something in Ginny reflects that it is wrong to elevate past happenings to a higher level when it wasn't _really_ like that. There may have been an undercurrent of peace, but when was she ever happy? She spent the past year acting and hiding, and if Tom is to leave and renounce her now, it hasn't even been worth it; _he_ hasn't even been worth it. 

But the Dark Mark... what is it even doing _here_, in this vapid little grazing-ground? It can't be following them. Oh, it is hideous. 

"What is it, Tom?" asks Ginny quietly, glad now to have tamed her stutter. "What are you looking at?" 

He whirls around. "You don't _see_ it? Geneva, how can you not?" He waves his fingers at the sky. "Right there, see, you can hardly miss it." 

"What is it? Do you want me to teach you the constellations?" 

Tom explodes. The resemblance to a foiled Rumpelstiltskin comes to Ginny unbidden. "_NO!_ I don't want to _learn_ anymore! Stop trying to teach me, and _look at the sky!_ Don't you see it?" 

She puts her hand on his shoulder. "No, I don't. What are you looking at?" 

"I don't believe you, Geneva! You _do_ see it, don't you?" 

"No," she says, shaking her head. "I don't know what you're talking about. Maybe you're simply imagining it." 

He stares out towards it, breathing hard, and takes a step forward with a glance at the sky to confirm it. 

"All right. If you say so," he says reluctantly. He doesn't believe her. 

Yawning, she flings herself to the ground again, pulling him down with her. 

"Do let's sleep now, Tom. Once you close your eyes, you may stop seeing it." 

When she closes her eyes, he is still gazing out at it. She rolls onto her stomach again, lying on the hand she holds her wand with. 

_____ 

The day dawns, rumbling, and she is wet all over. The dye she used on her robes is running and collecting into a puddle around her, staining the grass. When she wakes up, standing, she can see her silhouette in the ground like a murder victim's. 

It is grey out now, the clouds streaking across the sky in soot and monochrome wounds. A dull light shines through them, but Ginny cannot feel it, for the sun stripes across the field and she is excluded from it. 

Wringing out her hair, she looks all around her, only to see her trunk open with its contents strewn about, soaking up mud and water. That's all right, she never wanted to keep her Potions textbook. 

Where is Tom? She tears at her possessions, trying to take inventory, and she remembers she held her wand to her while she slept, where it was _not_ when she woke. 

If she looks out onto the horizon, she can see a vague figure, like a dot... her broom, her new old Shooting Star, is gone. 

He's gone, and it's out of her control. Slow, barefoot Ginny Weasley, going after a broom in a storm on foot—and already, she loses sight of him! 

She crawls over to the tree. Her rationale is to dry off, but in a way she can be a target for the lightning. What better time than now to try her fascination with electricity? Her thoughts are uncontrollable, spinning out with wicked thoughts like tempting electrocution. 

She strips off her robes, about to wring them out when she notices an odd glow on the back: 

**soRRY GInnY HAD To**

A sob rises in her, convulsing at her diaphragm. He called her Ginny again; he forces her to think back to oozing messages she sponged onto school walls.

Staring at the plains of the sky, she thinks she can see Tom again. He flies high, and ever higher. The wind forces him down, but he directs the sail of his course to scrape the sky. 

The thunder rumbles again, and out of habit she begins timing it. One, two, three... 

Then it strikes, and it strikes Tom, who was up so high he had to fall. He was a Slytherin, after all. 

Three seconds means that he is a kilometre away. It means that if she starts now, she can reach him in ten minutes. 

She moves to leave, but something inside her—is it a conscience? —kicks through her stomach with a brutal force. Moaning, she falls to the ground and stays doubled over until she must roll over and surrender to another urge, one that leaves her stomach, which she no longer loves, empty. 

She is incapacitated now; she cannot move. 

Tom will have to come to her, then. 


	3. Immortal

Immortal  
  
"Poor Tom," Geneva says. "You're still a bit dazed from it, aren't you?" 

His scalp shines underneath what scant hair there is to hide it, and his ear has a clumsy, dirty bandage to enshrine it. It burns; everything burns slowly at him now, the pain driving at him to do something. The _pain_. What she thinks is confusion is his own looming, foreboding thoughts. 

She strokes his head, practicing for motherhood, and turns to look towards the window. "It is snowing outside now, can you imagine? I hadn't expected anything... it's still fall, it shouldn't even be happening." 

He gazes out to where the snow glitters in the sunlight. Near the forest, red seeps through it where a trap lay in wait. A wolf limps along, trailing blood behind it. She has called his attention to it, perhaps in warning; often at night, he slinks out of the cabin, away from the stifling heat of her bare back against his. She wants to keep him inside, for he always has to unlock the door when he leaves. 

He also wonders, asking the ceiling again when she leaves, but it does not answer. Its patched mud and sacrificial trees do not serve to echo, though occasionally it sends mud down to him. 

Their muddy cabin squats at the peak of a mountain, from where they can behold the waterfalls and conifers that crawl down the slope and into the valley below, freckled with ponds like the bridge of her nose. They had swum in them yesterday, she teaching him, but today he cannot learn anything. 

He finds the room stifling, even with the snow blowing in from outside without a proper door to close it. The oven in the corner flares red and burns other trees, spitting out at him; remembering his scalp smoking after the lightning, he doesn't dare to touch it. 

Despite her subtle warnings and messy doctoring, he can be happy with her, if uncertain and shadowy. She cradles her burgeoning belly with such a glowing face, calling his attention to little kicks in gasps and smiles, and he is being pulled in. _Love me_, the object of her cooing cries to them, and she has answered the call with the fortitude of a pregnant Eve, ready to bear a Cain or Abel. 

Tom is not as sure as she is. The fluttering of Geneva's stomach has set his stomach fluttering many times with her infectious joy and his anxiety. 

"It kicked!" she screams, jolting up in her seat, then she wilts back down and moans. He crawls over to her dutifully and lays his good ear upon her stomach, intent upon trying to understand what is in there. 

He hears a slow rush and a pulse like war drums. He holds his breath, and his heartbeat crescendos. 

"Did you hear it?" says Geneva happily. 

"Of course I did," he replies. "It's wonderful." Lies just slip through his teeth, little to her notice. He cannot believe the kind of opportunity he has missed by not discovering this sooner. 

"Absolutely amazing." 

"A complete miracle." 

Geneva smiles at her burden again and at him. "I'm so glad you feel that way. We can name it Tom if you want." 

"No," he whispers, hurling himself away from her. The bandage unfurls from his ear and hangs there in an oozing, swaying strip. 

She angles herself to protect the baby and gapes up at him. A few deep breaths calm him, but his teeth are still grinding together and his nails are gouging his palms. 

"We are _never_," he says, "_never_ going to name anything after us." 

She nods quickly. "All right. If that's what you want. We can change it. Let's think. What name do you want?" 

_Voldemort_. His eyes light up. A name that can live on past him. 

No, he doesn't want anything to live past him. The name still retains its perfection, but he can keep it for himself for now. No telling what Geneva would do or could do if he shared the name with her. 

As if she can read his thoughts, her eyes suddenly bulge, and she leaps out of her chair. "Think of it later!" Ginny howls, and she runs out. Tom follows her out, tracing her pink path out to the outhouse, but his path forms pristinely in the opposite direction in the snow, also spotted pink. 

"GINNY!" 

He whirls around. Where did the voice come from? He doesn't recognize it. It echoes around so he can place it, but he can't. 

There is a choice before him now: seek out the voice and suppress it, or go to Geneva and make sure she did not hear it. 

Trying to do both, he glances down the slope and bolts for the outhouse, but the sounds coming from the outhouse extend very far and act as a barrier, luckily. Heading back for the slope, he grabs one of the blades from an already-sprung guillotine trap. He finds himself licking his lips. 

Something crunches further down the hill, but when he turns to it, all he can see is a flash of red escaping. 

He will have to be silent, otherwise the person will know he is being followed. Before he can continue, something lands on his ear and burns it, and he howls. What could it have been? 

Of course, he had forgotten that it was snowing. He bandages his ear back up again, clenching his jaw hard at its sensitivity, and cups it with his hand. If it is snowing, the other person must have left footprints. He'll have to hurry. Since the snow is falling, it will mask the person's dry tracks, but the blood he has left behind in the snow will not fade. He doesn't like feeling so vulnerable; they could follow him back to the house with the trail he has left unprotected. 

It is up to keep them from following him by following them. He darts back to the traps around the cottage to take out one of the large blades, as if by instinct, and retraces the footsteps of the other person, skirting through the thick of the forest as so not to be seen. By the time he comes to the last of the footprints, he is out of breath, exhausted by his own cunning. 

The person he is looking for, the redheaded fiend, is perched at the edge of a ledge, looking around. Tom is ready to give him something to gape at, scream at, bleed for. He steps forward, a smile on his face. When the man finally looks up, he yells in surprise and nearly falls off. Tom laughs to himself at it and does not help the man up. 

"Hello," says red, squinting hard at him but still smiling stiffly. Now that they are face to face, Tom uneasily recognizes a nose like Ginny's on him. "Can you help me?" 

"Yes," says Tom, lying calmly again. He can. He will not. "What are you looking for?" 

"Warmth, first." He grins at his clever joke, the fog of breath over his features a fog of complacency. "Can you help me?" 

Tom moves towards the forest without a reply, pressing the man to follow him. He regrets it soon, for he has turned his back on the excellent plan that was the ledge–but he can go back. Nothing is permanent! Everything can be changed to suit himself. Like the blade that he is switching around in his hands, forwards, behind his back, to hide it from red. 

"Who are you?" says red. 

"This is my home," Tom replies, a measure of friendliness infused to keep down suspicion. "You first." 

"Just call me Weasley," he says. "I'm looking for someone." Weasley, red, pauses for further questioning from Tom but does not receive it. Tom can see him weighing the importance of his quest against having to trust a stranger, and when Weasley says, "Ginny's around here somewhere," Tom has won the battle. 

"Pardon me, a _girl_?" 

Weasley frowns at his feigned disgust. "Yes, actually. She is considered a missing person now and I am entitled to broach upon the subject in my investigation whenever I want." 

"So long as you have a claim to keep you warm," retorts Tom, and Weasley shivers to be reminded of the cold. If he doesn't hurry, the only thing that can happen is Weasley freezing to the log he is sitting on; Tom is sitting on his blade. "I can prove what I mean. Just follow me." He leads the way back to the cliff, quickly. Perhaps Weasley will trip and save him the trouble. The consideration would certainly please him. 

Tom peers out below, assessing the danger of the cliff–Weasley _should_ die, with luck. He waves Weasley forward. 

"_See?_" he taunts. "Deserted. There's nothing around for miles but fog and trees. Look for yourself." 

Weasley inches to the edge. "What fog? There's–" 

Tom grabs him at the arms and flings him over, watching his mad, bumpy descent. If only he wouldn't yell so. 

When he has gone down, Tom needs to stop and catch his breath, waiting for his blood to subside, before he makes a descent to check. 

Just to make sure–being nothing if not meticulous–he throws the blade down to keep Weasley company. 

Later, he goes down the hill again, "to fetch a pail of water," as he calls out to Geneva. He has to go down, for his memory is teasing him with the formula for a Trinity Resurrection. 

_____ 

Ginny, anxiously awaiting Tom's arrival after her delivery in the outhouse, greets him by showing him the baby and collapsing on the bed with it. She would like to keep her eyes open, but she trusts them less than she trusts Tom, and soon enough, they betray her. 

When she wakes up, it is dark, and Tom and the baby are staring at each other, his hands wrapped around it to hold it level to him. Resentment chafes at her, for _she_ could not get the baby to stop crying, and _she_ is the one to whom the baby is indebted. Infants really are fickle, she supposes unhappily, if they can desert their mother, whom they have known for nine months, for strangers. 

"I named him while you were asleep," Tom speaks up, "and I melted snow to put over his head." Poor Tom, such a heathen, knows nothing about baptism at all. She wants to get him to look at her, and she wants to see how he feels, but he will not break his contact with the baby, nor will he allow emotion in his voice. 

She hadn't realized the baby was a boy–hadn't thought of checking. It runs in the family. "What do you think of him?" 

"We'll have to see," he says. "So far, he is faultless." He smiles briefly, and it makes the baby to want to be closer to him. "Are you cold?" Tom asks him solemnly, and brings him closer to wrap his coat around him. 

Strange, thinks Ginny, that such a little thing can be in tumults of joy merely because of Tom's attention. She wonders over it until she remembers doing the same thing. Thinking of it makes her tired, and soon she falls into slumber again. 

This time, she is woken by a howl that sends her out of the house, tearing towards its direction in a panic. 

There stands Tom, at the peak of a hill, holding the baby above his head; Tom is the one making all the noise. The wind whips so hard about him that the bandage around his ear unfurls, and it goes flying off, beating against trees and rocks. There is a strange white dome covering his head–a gleaming crown. Ginny squints at him, partly to blur what she is forced to see, but also because she feels it is something she wants too. 

She can hear him: "AND SO LET THE BLOOD OF THE SON FLOW BACK INTO THE FATHER AND GIVE HIM LIFE AGAIN THAT _HE..._ _MAY..._ _RISE_!" Tom draws his arm back, and suddenly, she realizes what he is about to do and runs forward. 

"NO! Tom, that's _enough_!" She lunges at him–she can see his **crown** now, a skull streaked red–and in the second before he falls, he wraps himself around his son, an ironic protection. 

He falls down and breaks his crown,  
and she comes tumbling after. 

"Mrs. Riddle? Mrs. Riddle?... Jenny? Are you up yet, dear?" The voice greeting her is kind, broadly accented, and full of concern. It is still too loud for Ginny. 

"Yaagh." _Jenny?_ Where is she? Her eyes will not open. 

"Oh, of course, poor dear, that'll be the medicine, you might not have the use of your muscles back for another while yet. Don't worry, you have your husband to speak for you." 

"Ngah?" 

"Don't worry, he's all right! He said you might not know what had happened when you woke up, so I'll just tell you what happened: you, your husband, and little Morty–" 

Morty. The inevitable. How sweet, to take Death and change it into a happy little nickname. 

"Yes, the three of you–_such_ a nice family–" The woman sighs wistfully, gripping Ginny's hand. No–no!–is the baby (_Morty_ will take getting used to) dead? Why had she ever wished it? Or–"must have lost your balance on your hiking trip and taken a tumble down the hill. You've been banged up a good bit. Oh, weren't you a sight when we found you! I wouldn't have thought that little gashes like yours could have made so much _mess_." She'll make a _mess_; she wants to. Tom ought to have mess all over him to warn people off. "Don't worry, no stitches for you." 

Ginny's first sign of returning muscles comes in the small giggle as she remembers her father's experience with stitches, but the remembrance of her family saddens her. 

The woman smoothes her hair. "Mr. Riddle has a cast on his leg, and the doctor did what she could for that ear of his, but... oh, shall I bring your husband to see you now?" 

"Uhm!" is Ginny's definite answer, and she gets to be left to herself for a while the lady bustles off. Of course, Tom lied to her, but what _did_ happen? Her mind fixates upon the idea of Thanatos, death with a torch in one hand and a butterfly in another. Perhaps the butterfly is a hint from her subconscious, leading her to Tom. 

She remembers her old image of death, wearing a skull–her skull–upon its head. Of course, old nightmares don't have anything to do with Tom, but neither does what happened to them. Tom is worse off than her, or will be eventually, from it, and it serves him right, knowing his intended effect. 

But that's her problem, isn't it? She doesn't _know_ what he meant by it. She hasn't a clue what he intended. 

Clank, _thump_. Clank, _thump_. The woman mentioned something about Tom's leg, didn't she? That would be him, now. For a while, he will be like a cat with a bell around his collar, the noise he is making, and his limited mobility will keep him contained for a while. Ginny remembers Tom flying away on her broom, and, as terrifying as it was, she naughtily imagines him trying to do it with a cast swinging underneath. 

He clears his throat. "Ginny? Ginny! Open your eyes for me." 

Her eyelids flutter in spasms against her face, and this effort satisfies Tom. That he could harbour it against _her_, who is blameless is enough, to be faking her ailment, is enough to get her fists to clench. 

"All right." Tom leans in close; she can feel his breath against her face. "You aren't to tell them, you hear me?" he whispers. "I've found a niche for us. I have plans now, Ginny. To ruin my plans will be to destroy your life, for your life is mine." 

And all of a sudden, Ginny finds her voice, and she yells, "_No!_" and it comes out so softly that she supposes she ought not to try again. 

"You'll see, Ginny," Tom whispers. "You'll see." 

And she does, when she can finally open her eyes. The woman and her husband, a childless old couple, own an inn, and they are so taken with Tom and the baby–isn't she a lucky girl?–that they have offered them positions as caretakers. Ginny will have to take care now; they will be back into the world. 

She doesn't mark the day that Morty was born, so she cannot ever trace her way back to where it all began. Tom has marked down his birthday, somewhere, but they never remember it, and they have no trouble about forgetting it. Morty has eight teeth now, and Ginny uses him as a calendar to mark the time since the accident. 

Morty is a demanding, imperious baby whenever she has him; nothing his mother can do is ever good enough. In a fit of exasperation and jealousy one time, she insisted that Tom be the one to tend to him when they are both there. She felt sorry after, and she should have made the effort to parent. 

So Ginny tries to make it up by doing the one thing she can do for him that Tom can't. Now that Morty has teeth, she's not really supposed to, and he nearly gnaws off her breasts, but that is what sacrifice is about. Soon, she won't be able to hold onto him at all. 

She spends most of her time replacing sheets, and whatever Tom does during the day, she only hears about it from the couple, who believe that Tom represents one of the finest people his age that they've ever met. 

"Wake up," Tom whispers one morning, shaking her shoulder. "Up, up. We will be busy." She moans and stirs, and he drags her from the bed. "Get dressed, quickly, and look nice." 

"What about Morty?" Ginny's half-open eyes blink towards him. 

"He'll be fine. That's not important now. Come." 

He hauls her half-conscious form towards the door and into the rental car, and out they go. She falls asleep as soon as she sits down and the first thing she sees when she wakes is a large sign: "Welcome to Little Hangleton!" 

"We're looking for a church. Tell me if you see one." Tom tightens his grip on the wheel of the car, and Ginny has to wonder where he learnt to drive. Every other car is speeding past them, the drivers yelling. 

He screeches to a halt at the first cross they see, and Ginny, who is just beginning to hold her eyes open, stops for a second. 

"Wait. Tom, what is this? Are you going to confess or anything like that?" 

He snorts. "Confess? What do I have to confess? You actually think I need it. Just follow my lead." He takes her by the arm and leads her towards the door, and when they get inside, he calls, "Hello? We came here for a ceremony." 

Ginny looks around, trying to figure out whom he's talking to. She has never been in a church before. It is drafty and austere. 

A large woman emerges from the back, somewhere, and her eyes brighten when she sees them. "I love secret marriages," she beams. 

Ginny looks at Tom. 

"Didn't you want it?" he whispers. "This is just to make sure, anyway. I lied to the couple, so we have to make sure there isn't anything for them to find out." 

"We're making the lie become a truth," she says thoughtfully. 

"Just repeat after her, and don't let anything interrupt what we're trying to do." He nudges her into the beginning the wedding, and when they leave, he instructs her, "We've gone out for a drive in the country." 

"Mmm," says Ginny, mesmerized by the sparkle and promise of her new ring. 

When she finishes cleaning early, she sees Tom behind his desk. He will never move, for he is bored; instead, he thinks. Today, since she has a mission to avoid him for, she watches him behind the high fern. There is a pattern to Tom's thoughts: he bites his lips together, he moves his jaw in and out, and inevitably, his eyes flash. Luckily, he is interrupted in his plans by customers, and he springs up from his chair, wiping off his clothes as if they are contaminated from it, and makes haste to greet them. 

She sneaks out while he is distracted by him, and by the time she is on the train, she realizes: how silly. Why hadn't she just Apparated? 

When she gets to King's Cross Station, she has to fight against the swarms of children coming her way. At first, she doesn't react to it, but then, she hears a hoot and she notices the owls that some of them have accompanying them. 

Ginny presses herself against the wall and takes a moment to calm herself down, thinking of what to do. She can't stay where she is until they go, but she would do anything to keep from being discovered. Her mission had been fraught with that danger already; she had been leaving for Diagon Alley. 

But, the thought coming to her like pinching a bruise, she wonders whether she meant to be found anyway. Are they still looking for her, though? What irony, to go there to be found and not elicit a glance! 

What was that song? _Que sera, sera... whatever will be, will be..._ sung to her by her mother when she was young; she plans to sing it to Morty. He'll need a good lesson like that. 

She slips back out into the crowd, finding that perfect spot in the sky to stare at so that no one can see into her eyes. Occasionally, a sweet little smile drifts upon her face for the benefit of the "Hello!" that comes from friendly strangers. They must like the challenge of her faraway gaze. 

Her shoulder hits the edge of someone else who is passing, and she frowns. What on earth are they staring at _her_ for? They shouldn't have stopped in the middle of the walkway like that. 

"Sorry," she says with her nomad voice, part of the mood she takes on to avoid people. 

"Hold on, aren't you–" and she moves on. On, to the taxi that she has engaged for ten minutes, and off to Diagon Alley. Off to see the wonderful wizards; Ginny's references to the outside world have surprised her. She'd never realized she had been a part of it and never expected to remember. 

When she gets there, people's reactions are the same as always, going past in their own taxis. She starts to worry: what if she can't see the entrance anymore? Is she still a witch? She doesn't think she wants to be, but it'll make going through rather inconvenient. 

Hold on to something until it becomes a burden, that's what Tom always says, then cast it off and begin afresh. He cannot have had much experience with getting it back after when you need it again. Ginny decides it's better to hold the thing at bay, instead; maybe she can suggest it to Tom. He has been thinking too much. 

A car honks at her, and someone pushes her out of the road. She lands inside the Leaky Cauldron and looks around. No one has donned a hood today, and the walls are whitewashed. The bartender is pouring a glass of milk for a little child swinging her legs up at the bar. 

The gateway beckons. She goes up to it, fumbling for her wand, but as she stands with it in her hand, she doesn't know what to do. Four up, four down, around... no, that's a reel. Ginny transfers the tapping from her wand to her foot, hoping someone will come by and help her. 

"Ginny!" Finally, someone notices her. She turns around and gasps. 

"_Bill!_" She runs up and hugs him, her delight to see him overriding her initial plan for caution. 

"You're the first one I've seen in a year," he tells her. "I guess Mum & Dad told you about my mission for the Order? I spent a year looking for You-Know-Who. Haven't heard from anyone since I left." 

Ginny nods. "I was searching for Voldemort, too–but I'm glad I didn't find him. Open the gateway for me, Bill? I've forgotten how." 

"Of course, Ginny." Bill rubs her back, taps at the wall, and then they step into Diagon Alley, which looks exactly as Ginny remembered it. "Let's go get a sundae." 

When they are seated at Fortescue's, it sinks in– Bill is a tabula rasa, and she can talk with him without any inhibitions. Without the constant demand of answers that Ron would have, she can carry on the first normal conversation with her family that she has had in months. 

"So when I got out of Siberia," he says, "I realized how long had actually passed. All that time, I had told myself that I was only searching thoroughly, but now I have to wonder, was I only prolonging my search? And to think I was a Gryffindor." 

"Oh Bill, it's not your fault," blurts Ginny. "Anyone would have done the same thing. Who would want to meet Voldemort face to face after hoping he's gone forever. Not even the bravest man could do that." She reaches out for his hand–a small squeeze is her sisterly duty. 

Bill smiles. "Wow, Ginny, you've really grown up. Your year of searching must have done you good." 

"Oh, I found more than I expected." Ginny looks down at her melting ice cream and plays with her spoon. "I found a husband." 

Nearly leaping out of his seat, Bill grabs her left hand and presses it tightly. Each finger on her hand can feel the bone of the joint sticking out; maybe she'll get Mum's arthritis. "Ginny!" Bill shouts. "Who? Does everyone know yet?" 

"Oh, they may have _guessed_," says Ginny coyly. "You'll have to see what they knew when you tell them." 

Bill slams his hand on the table. "_Me_ tell them? Oh no, Ginny. You're the one who eloped. _What_ could have driven you to do it? You're so young." 

She pours her not-so-iced cream over the cherry, confident that Bill will be the one to tell them. "I guess that's why. I don't know... I never really expected it, although I figured it had to be coming sometime. One day, he just took me out to the church." 

"I wish I knew where you were," says Bill. 

"You'd only come after him," Ginny points out. She stares past him, avoiding his eyes, and she espies Fred and George coming towards them. A quick glance at her watch, and her excuse is set. "Look, Bill, I have to go now..." Will she tell him? Nothing to lose. "I have to get back to feed the baby." 

"_What?_" Bill stands as she does. "For heaven's sake, is _this_ something Mum & Dad know about? What have you gotten yourself into?" 

She hesitates. "I have to go." Before either of the twins see her, she is off and running to the exit, panting as she slams through the gateway. She's too flustered now to catch her breath, and she tells herself that she will never, ever go back. When she gets home, she cuddles Morty to her and, squall though he might, brings him to sleep in the bed with her where she can keep him safe. 

When she wakes up, Morty is gone, back in his crib, and without the will to get up, she stays in bed. Right before she falls asleep again, she feels a back press against hers. 

"Ginny," Tom whispers. "Are you up?" Mumble. "I have to tell someone about this, I feel like I'm about to burst. I've started our plan!" 

Ginny props herself up. "What?" 

Tom laughs. "You'll see!" 

One of the guests at the inn discovers the couple that day. The police come after the bodies later without asking them any questions, but the couple were old, their death completely untraceable. They have left everything to Tom. 

With the arrival of the lawyer, Ginny is out, her baby with her. Where's the nearest Floo network? Oh well. She'll get there any way she has to. 

At the door of the Burrow, she hesitates. It turns out to be a bad idea because out comes mum to collect the milk, and Ginny ends up stuck there on the step without a plan. 

"Oh... Mum," she stammers. "I–I saw Bill... and I wanted to come, and..." The milk bottles shatter, and Ginny shoves Morty at her mother. 

More horrific than her own awkward bewilderment, mum starts crying. Ginny's never seen her cry, and it has never occurred to her that her mother will. Not for her. 

"Oh, Ginny!" she sobs. "My only daughter! Oh, we've been so..." 

Ginny reaches in for a hug between the three of them, looking past mum's comfortable shoulder towards the house, peering in. The clock is what she's looking for. Strangely, the hands are all different. Percy is gone. A tiny hand hiding behind hers must be Morty's. 

Ginny's hand is set at Home. 

She sets her own conditions for being there: no questions, no following, no pressing her to stay. She thinks she could start getting used to being hovered around and wrapped into bed at night. Home is as it always has been, after all, pleasant and cozy. 

"How you feeling, Morty?" she asks him, holding him up to the sun to let the drool dry. Ginny bounces him into a giggle, happy to have him be happy with her. "Now that Mummy's here, should she stay and let your Nan pamper you silly?" 

He whimpers and calls out his first word: "Da! Da!" 

"So no," she says quietly. "Such a smart little boy." Ginny nuzzles his cheek to calm him down. "Shush, shush, Morty, my baby. We'll go back, of course.... I just liked having you to myself for a little while, though I suppose I didn't; I suppose I never will." 

"Ma," Morty consoles her, tugging at her bright hair. 

They steal away in the night, traceless, and buy a train ticket. Morty starts bawling in the carriage, which is all right for Ginny because Tom can stop it, but the other passengers are not so tolerant and abandon their seats for their ears. 

Ginny takes the opportunity to breastfeed him. It seems like a good idea, but it means his screeches cannot keep anyone at bay another. A few men wander in and duck out... and then comes the loon. 

Luna, Luna, Loony Lovegood, Ginny wants to chant when she sees her, but she must be the loony one now, for Luna merely drifts into the car for a seat. She looks as untidy as ever, but focused on something, Ginny can't tell what. 

"I knew I'd find you someday," she muses without any salutation. "Just like the Crumple-Horned Anoraks. I knew you couldn't be gone. I saw you at King's Cross, anyway. You bumped into me." Luna looks round and shifts into the seat next to her. "Is he yours? It's a bit early." 

Ginny looks down at Morty and strokes his head. "He's mine. Morty Riddle." She flutters her fingers at Luna, her ring catching the light. 

"Oh, so you have one too." Luna grasps Ginny's left hand with her own, letting her see the emerald and ruby band. "I've never heard of your husband, Riddle, but Harry's got the other one of these. I stuck my head into the fireplace to court and we had the Minister marry us yesterday. Now I'm travelling up to meet him." 

Without comment, Ginny nods, checking her watch for the stop. 

"I'd be proud, you know," persists Luna. "To have a child? I don't believe I can; people will be glad, no doubt. Are you proud of him?" 

"He's my baby." Ginny shrugs. "All I can do is keep him from harm." 

She realises that it's true. It is all she can do; indeed, all she has ever done. It must be her purpose in life. Her family will need her. 

Luna, despite the veil of insanity that always seems to billow around her, solidifies for a second and looks wistful. 

"May I hold him?" she asks. 

Does she mean it? Does she dare? Ginny, fully appreciating Luna's nature now, hands him over. Luna gazes at him, caught in the lure of his soft skin and fine dark hair and tiny features. 

The spell breaks as the train skids to a halt, for this is her stop now, and Ginny will have to go back. She jostles Luna for the baby and bursts out to the platform. 

"Ginny." 

"It's Geneva." 

Tom is waiting, he scoops up Morty, and they drive home, Morty laughing all the way, without saying anything. 

_____ 

The letter will come–it must–in nine-and-a-half years, and Ginny will be off her feet and watching Tom through the mirrors. Morty will be out, for once he learns to accept Medea, he will find his little sister a ready sidekick and scapegoat. 

But it will be him whom the letter concerns, she can see it now: 

_Immortal Riddle,  
Merely Inn, Memory Lane,  
Darlington_

It will be the first time she ever knows his full name. Hopefully, Tom's immortality can live on through his children. 

She will not open the letter, but she will cage the owl until Tom comes to her, and although she will have burnt the letter by now, he may know its contents already. She could ask but won't. 

They'll kill the first owl, Geneva plucking it for pillows, Tom burying it in the back garden. The flowers flourish for many years, because another owl will come, and another. 

Geneva will finally open the envelope and send back a negative reply, and Tom will do the same for Medea in years to come. Together, they will forget to tell their children–or maybe they will just forget. Magic is their past; their past has finally passed them by.

**THE END**


End file.
